Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (2 page)

He must have sensed my hesitation, as Rafe put a hand on my arm. "He loved you, Tessie."

This admission took me by surprise. "I, um, I loved him, too," I said, the words sticking in my throat, causing those tears to back up again.

"Come back to the casino, Tessie." He paused. "At least to say good-bye."

Put like that, how could I refuse?

*  *  *

The Royal Palace Casino and Resort was located on the border of South Lake Tahoe, California and Stateline, Nevada. And when I say "on the border," I mean the state line ran the entire length of the parking lot. One inch over the Nevada border, Dad had erected the first line of slot machines on casino property.

South Lake Tahoe was primarily a tourist town, playing host to Silicon Valley execs and wealthy entrepreneurs on their three-day weekends. The locals were die-hard skiers and snowboarders whose jobs largely centered around the tourists, a small trade-off for living in the winter sports paradise. The landscape was dotted with million-dollar ski chalets mingling with weather-worn cottages and old motels converted into apartments. Ski bums and nature lovers who worshiped the mountains mixed with weekenders who worshiped the casinos, spas, and souvenir boutiques lining Lake Tahoe Boulevard.

And in the center of it all sat the lake itself, almost two-hundred square miles of crystal blue waters. My father named me after the legendary "Tahoe Tessie" monster that was supposedly the local version of its more famous Loch Ness cousin. Not that I really believed in that kind of folklore. And, trust me, my father hadn't been the fanciful type either. But he knew a publicity opportunity when he saw it. Any chance to draw more tourists to the Royal Palace's slots, that man was all over it. Even when it came to naming his only child.

Next door to the Royal Palace sat Harrah's casino, and just across the street were their two competitors, Harvey's and the Deep Blue. And just over the border on the California side sat a handful of boutiques, restaurants, and ski equipment rental shops, soaking in the casinos' tourist overflow.

I pulled up to the front of the Royal Palace. It was eighteen stories of neon-rimmed glass and steel. The main gambling floors sat in front, windowless chambers with flashing signs advertising showgirls, magicians, and the latest aging rock band booked into the amphitheater behind the parking structure. Flanking the main building were the turret style towers, holding guest rooms. They jutted into the bright blue sky, breaking up the scenery of pine trees and snow dusted peaks with giant billboards at their apex, letting everyone know that the buffet was only $4.99 on Wednesdays.

While there was no other word but "gaudy" to describe the building, it had an almost predictably commercial charm about it that was oddly comforting.   

I left my car with a valet sporting dark hair and lots of freckles and entered the lobby. Here the gaudy goodness was even more prevalent, my father having delighted in being the "King" of his "Royal" palace. He'd embedded touches of his theme everywhere, from the "Princess Day Spa" on the second floor, to the "King's Court All You Can Eat Buffet" located in the west wing of the building. In the lobby, the floors were polished marble leading to the check-in desk, lined in gold and dotted with fake family crests. The gaming floor dinged with a thousand slot machines all going at once, and the air held a thick haze of cigarette smoke, indoor smoking being legal on this side of the border. It was a scent I should have hated, but it instantly brought me back to my childhood, dragging with it bittersweet memories that threatened those tears again.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat as I hit the east bank of elevators, stepped into an empty carriage, and keyed in my code for the penthouse.

"Ohmigod, Tessie, I'm so glad you came!" The second I walked into the penthouse suite, Britton attacked me with air kisses.

"Hi, Britton," I said, extracting myself from an embrace that smelled like peaches and Chanel No. 5. I scanned the room behind her for a glimpse of Rafe's tall frame, but the room was a sea of people in black who all blended together.

"When did you get in?" Britton asked, twirling her hair with one hand, holding a martini with the other.

"Just a couple of hours ago," I answered, craning around her to see where she'd gotten the drink from. I could definitely use one.

"Well, we'll totally have to catch up. Lunch tomorrow?"

I shifted my feet. "Actually, I'm not staying."

"What do you mean you're not staying?"

"I...have to get back to work." Which was true. While the owner of Mission Arts had told me to take as much time as I needed, we had a show this weekend. I was already starting to get antsy about leaving my artists in someone else's hands.

"Oh. Right. Work," Britton said, wrinkling her nose up at the four letter word.

She sipped at her drink, letting her eyes wander around the room, an uncomfortable silence falling between us. I'd only met Britton a couple of times. In fact, since leaving for college, I'd only been to Tahoe a couple of times. Work, life, and schedules had gotten in the way. Two-and-a-half years, I decided as I stood there, coveting Britton's drink. That's how long it had been since I'd stepped foot in the penthouse. Not that anything had changed. The walls were still covered in the same flocked, fleur-de-lis wallpaper and spotted with museum-quality paintings. Imported Persian rugs covered polished hardwood, the chandeliers dripping from the ceiling with crystals from the Liberace collection. The penthouse was exactly the same, the casino exactly the same. Even Britton was the same. With possibly the exception of her lips, which seemed a little fuller.

"I had them done."

"What?" I asked, blinking at her.

"My lips. I saw you staring at them. I had them done. Restylane."

"Oh, I, uh…"

"It's awesome. Lasts for like six months without a follow up. You should totally try it."

I wasn't sure if I'd just been insulted or if this was Britton's brand of small talk.

But before I had a chance to respond she completely changed gears. "God, it's not going to be the same without him around here," she said, taking a generous gulp of her martini.

"He was a presence, wasn't he?" I agreed.

Britton sniffed loudly. "It was just so sudden, you know?" she said, cocking her head at me. "One minute totally lively, the next, like, gone."

I felt that odd lump in the back of my throat again and squashed it down. "Was he sick?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No. I mean he was, like, totally healthy. Energetic, strong, virile as hell…"

"Okay, that's enough." The last thing I wanted to hear about was my dead father's virility.  

Britton teared up. "I'm just gonna miss him so much, Tessie."

And then she hugged me. Not a dainty air-kiss thing, but a full-bodied hug that threatened to spill vodka down the back of my little black dress.

I awkwardly put my arms around her shoulders, patting her back. I glanced around the room, trying to catch someone's eye for help.

Unfortunately, the eye I caught was dark, beady, and belonged to someone I recognized only too well. Buddy Weston, owner of the Deep Blue casino across the street. He was short, stocky, and wore a gaudy, teal silk shirt and matching tie beneath his blazer, both of which shimmered under the chandelier's lighting.

"Ladies," he said, approaching us.

At the sound of his voice, Britton detached herself and turned around to face him. Immediately her eyes went from tearful to suspicious, narrowing beneath her false lashes as her jaw tensed. "What the hell are you doing here, Weston?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, one big, bushy thing. "I came to pay my respects. Dick and I had our business differences, but we were peers of a sort."

"Ha!" Britton blasted out. Loudly enough that I wondered just how many martinis she'd had since returning from the cemetery. "You tried to shut Dick down every chance you got."

"Business. Nothing personal."

"Easy to say now that he's gone," she shot back.

Weston smiled tightly, a benign thing that didn't quite reach his beady eyes. "I guess we're all in a better financial place now that he is, aren't we, Britton?"

Her eyes narrowed so far they were just tiny slits, her brows pulling down into angry slashes. "Exactly what are you implying, Weston?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Buddy cut his eyes to a painting on the wall. "Is that a Vermeer? Lovely. Priceless. Yours now, no?"

"Get out!" Britton shouted. Causing several heads to turn our way. "Get the hell out of our casino, and don't you dare come back."

Weston smiled his tight smile at Britton again, any emotion behind it completely unreadable. Then he turned to me, nodded, and made his way toward the exit.

Britton waited until the heavy double doors closed behind him before letting out a long sigh, declaring to the room in general, "God, I need another drink," and heading off toward the bar I'd yet to find.

"Hurricane Britton strikes again," a gravelly voice at my elbow observed. Alfie.

"In her defense, he's a jerk," I pointed out.

Alfie nodded. "That he is," he agreed. Then he turned to face me. "It's nice to see you, Tessie. I wish it were under better circumstances."

"Thank you," I answered, knowing that was as close to emotion as Alfie was likely to display.

"How long are you in town for?" he asked.

"Leaving tonight," I said, making the decision on the spot. I'd had enough of the Royal Palace.

Alfie frowned. "I had hoped you'd stay for a few days. I have an appointment set up for you with your father's attorney tomorrow."

"His attorney?" I asked. "Why?"

"To go over the terms of your father's will."

I bit my lip. While my father lived large, I had no idea what his actual net worth was. I guess I'd always figured most of what was in his penthouse belonged to the casino. He lived on site, drove company cars. It was a lifestyle, but I didn't know how much of it he actually owned. I couldn't keep my eyes from straying to the Vermeer hanging on the wall.

"I don't want anything," I heard myself say, almost meaning it. The painting was amazing, and I would have loved to give it a good home.  

"It's not that simple," Alfie responded. Though something in the tightness of his voice made me think he wished it was.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the pronoun Britton used just now to describe the casino wasn't entirely accurate." He paused. "When she told Weston to get out of
our
casino. It isn't ours or even hers."

He paused again, and I felt an odd ball of anxiety instantly grow in my gut, the words ringing in my ears even as he said them.

"It's
yours
. The casino now belongs to you, Tessie."

CHAPTER TWO

"What do you mean it's mine?" I asked, feeling a frown burrow between my brows as I studied the man across the table from me the next day.

After Alfie's bombshell last night, I'd asked the exact same question of
him
. But all he'd tell me is that my father's attorney would discuss everything with me in the morning. I gave up, found the bar, ordered a very stiff drink, then reluctantly trudged downstairs to ask the clerk on duty at check-in for a room for the night. But apparently Alfie had already arranged
that
, too, and a suite was waiting for me. I'd tossed and turned all night in the thousand-thread-count sheets, wondering exactly what kind of mess my father was dragging me back into here.

And this morning I was finding out, as I faced my father's attorney, Stintner, and Alfie across a huge glass table in my father's conference room, papers filled with legalese littering the surface.

"You are your father's only child," Stintner explained to me.

"Yes. I'm aware."

"As such, the casino is yours."

I shook my head. "Doesn't the casino belong to shareholders or a parent company or something? It's not like grandma's silver that can just be handed to me."

"Of course." Stintner nodded. He had white hair, a slim frame, and a large nose and pair of Dumbo ears that seemed two sizes too big for his petite frame. "A shareholder conglomerate technically owns the Royal Palace. However, Mr. King was one of the largest shareholders and chairman of the board of directors that ran the casino. He named you as his successor."

"Successor?" I repeated, feeling that frown burrow deeper. "That can't be. Look, I run a gallery. Art, that's what I know."

"Your father seemed to think otherwise," Stintner told me. "Believe me, he had several candidates to choose from, but he was adamant about naming you."

I bit my lip, an odd mix of emotions rolling in my belly. The fact that my father had such faith in my abilities filled me with a warm sort of pride. At the same time, I knew that faith was totally misplaced. Sure, I'd been able to deal five-card draw, seven-stud, Texas hold'em, and high/low Chicago style poker all before I was old enough to drive. But that had been a long time ago. I hadn't even picked up a deck of cards in ages. And knowing how to play cards was a far cry from running a multi-million dollar a year resort.

I'd grown up living in Berkeley, the child of a single, working mother. While we'd always had enough to eat and a decent roof over our heads, my summers at the casino had been my only glimpse into the lifestyles of the rich and spendthrift. I wasn't too proud to admit that overseeing an organization of this size, dealing in the sort of numbers they did on a daily basis, was way over my head.      

"Look," Stintner said, sensing my clear hesitation, "the fact is, like it or not, you are the chairman for the time being."

"For the time being," I said, jumping on the words.

The lawyer shot Alfie a look. "The board will obviously want to convene to discuss the future of the casino. At that time, if you so desire, you can withdraw as chairman and let the board appoint someone else."

Withdrawing sounded good. In fact, withdrawing
now
rather than waiting sounded even better.